if we sink, we lift our love (for always)
by possibilist
Summary: 'You don't mean to start laughing, but you can't help yourself.' or, five times rachel has inappropriate & ill-timed laughter. a lot of fluff, a teeny tiny bit of angst. faberry & fababies.


['You don't mean to start laughing, but you can't help yourself.' or, five times rachel has inappropriate & ill-timed laughter. a lot of fluff, a teeny tiny bit of angst. faberry & fababies.]

* * *

**if we sink, we lift our love (for always)**

**.**

_i love people who make me laugh. i honestly think it's the thing i like most, to laugh. it cures a multitude of ills. it's probably the most important thing in a person._

—audrey hepburn

…

_1_

You don't mean to start laughing, but you can't help yourself. You're holding Quinn's hand and you're in the hospital and sometimes it feels like you're _always _in the hospital. You've just turned twenty-three, and it feels like you've spent years here since you were eighteen.

It's 8 pm, and you've been up since 3 am when she'd woken up shaking and burning with a fever, wheezing. You could have sworn this time was just a cold that you'd passed on—you'd gotten better within three days—but now you're here with Quinn and another bout of pneumonia and another chest tube, more blood and more scars, and you know Quinn will be stubborn for the next few weeks and not wear her sling and insist she's not really in that much pain even when she is.

So it's not funny. But Quinn is on pain meds and she's holding your hand with this sleepy little smile.

And currently she is trying to entirely recount every last detail of season five of _Sex and the City, _complete with direct dialogue.

"And then Samantha says, 'When I was a lesbian,' and Carrie says, 'We all saw that one coming.'"

You nod—she actually got that part right; you've been appeasing her and watching them together—and you try not to smile when she goes, "And remember the part where instead of saying _pussy _because Brady is there, Charlotte puts up a V with her fingers in front of her mouth and then flickers her tongue?"

"I remember," you say, and she squeezes your hand happily.

"And _then_, Miranda is talking about how the Krispy Kreme guy, you know, when they were—the, um—you know, baby?"

"I know," you reassure.

"And then Carrie says, 'Miranda's overeating and she just got overeaten,' or—what is it?"

You try really, really hard not to laugh, because you're in a hospital and Quinn is sick, but you can't help yourself.

It's not soft laughter, either, but instead the deep kind, the sort that makes your belly ache. Quinn looks confused but then she smiles and starts giggling, and you say, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh but—"

Quinn shrugs and then says, "It was a funny episode," and she looks so proud of herself that you laugh even harder.

"God, I love you," you say through peals of laughter.

She says, "I love you, too, goof."

You kiss the top of her hand and keep laughing, increasingly softly, for a while, participating in Quinn's continued synopsis when she can't quite remember, and you both end up falling asleep gently and happily, your head resting on her gently rising and falling stomach, hands still linked.

Sometime during the middle of the night you deliriously move to a cot someone had set up by her bed, and the next thing you know, Quinn groans.

You blearily open your eyes and it's morning, and Quinn's face is twisted in pain and she's holding a hand to her ribs. "I feel like I got dragged by a train," she says.

You sit up with a frown, move to sit on the side of her bed. Her dose of morphine is substantially lower, you figure.

"Jesus, Rach, what did we even do yesterday?"

You smile despite yourself at the memory. "Well, you decided to recount an entire season of _Sex and the City_ by yourself."

"Oh my god," she groans.

"And we laughed a lot," you tell her.

Her expression softens and she reaches a hand and rubs her thumb against your cheek. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. You made me laugh a lot."

She lies back on her pillows with a sigh. "Totally worth it, then," she says.

You shake your head. "Quinn Fabray."

She shrugs with her right shoulder, knowing by now to keep her left still. "Whatever. I love making you laugh."

"I love you," you say, and kiss her forehead before you go to open the blinds, letting in early, drifting light.

…

_2_

You don't remember being this sloppy drunk in a long time, but Quinn finished her first year of graduate school at Columbia and your show is opening in a week, and some of your friends invite you to a rooftop garden party at a building not too far from yours.

"We're not doing anything pressingly important tomorrow, are we?" Quinn asks, eyeing shots.

You raise your eyebrows. "Not that I know of, no."

She grins, grabbing two glasses of tequila, handing one to you.

You put your hand on her arm gently. She's been so good for over a year, and she drinks casually with company, but for the most part Quinn doesn't really go near alcohol. "Are you good?" you ask softly.

Her excited expression softens seriously, and she kisses you so gently, and she says, "I just turned twenty-three years old and finished a year of a grad program at Columbia with a 4.0, and I am dating the prettiest girl I know, who happens to be the love of my life, and I'm an aunt, and tonight the sun is setting and we're in Manhattan to see it together, and I think you love me back, and—I'm so happy and I'd like to celebrate."

You don't know if you should laugh or cry, and the whole thing leaves you a little stunned, so you just kiss her and nod, take the glass from her hand.

"To all of that," you say, and she laughs and clinks her glass with yours. Watching Quinn do shots has become this secret little pleasure of yours, because she's always smooth and never uses chasers, never grimaces, only tips the liquid down her throat and clenches her jaw slightly, sharp and strong.

You take a lime and put it to your lips with as small a grimace as you can after you take your shot, but you don't cough.

Quinn smiles at you fondly, and you go put some food on a plate to share. You don't really know how you both get as drunk as you do, because you have a beer and a few more shots, but Quinn keeps bringing the two of you these intensely sweet cocktails in addition, and within two hours you feel drunk but not terrible. At some point Quinn gets dragged off by one of her old friends from Yale to meet his new boyfriend, and when you go to find her a while later, she's leaning casually against the wall on the roof's edge, taking long, sleepy drags of a cigarette and nodding to various points in whatever conversation.

You have mixed feelings when Quinn smokes—it only happens on very rare occasion when you get drunk—because you know it's bad for her, but then she's just so sexy, flicking her cigarette casually and blowing a smoke ring every now and then, and maybe it's because it reminds you of senior year and the first time you legitimately acknowledged the heat pooling between your legs when she talked to you, and maybe it's because you know all of the magnificent things that pretty mouth is capable of, and her mouth tastes like ghosts and old films and—

"Quinn," you say, and you try not to sound too shrill.

She turns toward you with a smile, takes one last drag and blows a smoke ring in your direction and snubs her cigarette on the ledge. She puts her arm around you when you reach her, not hesitating at all to play a little grab ass, and she says, "Matthew, Chris, this is my girlfriend Rachel."

They shake your hand and Matthew gives Quinn an approving wink, and then Quinn says, "It was wonderful seeing you, Matthew, and good to meet you, Chris."

You all exchange hugs and Quinn wraps her arm around your shoulders as you walk away, and she says, "Do you want to get out of here?"

You nod, because it's getting late and you're starting to feel profoundly drunk, and Quinn's not exactly steady herself. Just as you're about to go back inside, Quinn takes your hand and she gestures up, and you can make out a few stars, and she kisses you hard, and it's cigarettes and teeth, and your drunk brain thinks you have never been more in love with her than you are at this very moment.

You make it to your building before Quinn starts swaying, and you steady her in the elevator as best you can. You know her tolerance is low to begin with, and that her meds make it even lower, and that she probably didn't really eat enough today, so you're not too surprised.

You're also not too surprised when, as soon as you get into your apartment, she apologizes quickly and rushes to the bathroom.

Under normal circumstances, you would go help her, pull her hair back—something—but you're so drunk the only thing you can do is lie down on your couch and yell at her every few minutes to make sure she keeps answering, because she's throwing up a lot and you just want to make sure she doesn't fall over and die or something.

But she does keep answering, and eventually you wait for a long enough time without hearing any vomiting, and she responds that she's okay, and you let yourself go to sleep.

You wake up maybe two hours later, still drunk but starting to feel the effects of a hangover, and Quinn isn't on the couch with you, and you grab some water and then check and she's not in your bed, either. You start to feel nervous and then you walk to the bathroom and see Quinn sound asleep, literally hugging the toilet.

It's not really funny, but it's just so pathetic you have to laugh, because there's your beautiful and successful and stable girlfriend, in this very pretty sundress, glasses still crookedly on, draped over a toilet because you'd gotten so drunk. It makes you feel young and fabulously naive in the best way, and you shake her shoulder a little because her back is going to kill her in the morning if she doesn't move.

She marginally wakes up, enough for the two of you to struggle out of your clothes and curl up in bed together, clumsily wrapped up. You fall asleep laughing into her soft skin that smells like lavender and cigarettes and heady, breathless stars.

…

_3_

You come home in the middle of the day to start getting things ready for Santana and Megan's engagement party, and you expect to see Quinn dancing in the kitchen or cleaning, but instead she says hello from what you can tell is the direction of your master suite, and when you walk in you can see her in the bathroom, and when you walk into the bathroom, there's a significant of blonde hair on the counter and the floor, and Quinn is looking miserably in the mirror.

"What are you doing?" you ask, and you don't mean to sound frantic but—

"I just wanted a little trim because my bangs keep getting into my eyes and I didn't think I'd have time to—and now—"

She sounds like she's about to burst into tears, and you say, "Hey, it's okay. Come here."

"No."

You can't really see, so you try again. "I'm sure it's not that bad, Quinn."

She turns around slowly, and you really, really don't want to laugh, but her bangs are crooked and one side of her hair is significantly shorter than the other, reaching just past her jaw instead of grazing her shoulder.

You try to fight the smile, because this is something five-year-olds do, not your almost thirty-year-old wife.

"Oh, Kurt will be able to fix that, no problem," you say.

"I don't want him seeing this," she says, and sometimes you forget how scary she can be.

"Quinn," you say, taking a step closer to her, through little pieces of hair on the floor, and brush aside her choppy bangs. "Baby, unless you have a better idea, we have to have this place ready for the caterers at 5:30, and Kurt's really our best option right now."

She worries her bottom lip but then gives you a quiet, "Fine."

You nod and call Kurt and give him a brief synopsis while Quinn sits forlornly on the toilet seat. Kurt promises to be over in fifteen minutes.

He is, and he ends up salvaging Quinn's bangs so that they sweep partly to the side prettily, and she shrugs when he says that the only real option for the rest is to even everything out. It's only a few inches shorter, and it looks good—you've always been partial to Quinn's short hair, because you're a fan of her neck—and Quinn checks in the mirror and then says, "Thanks," to Kurt before she goes into your room to change.

You start sweeping up, and Kurt quirks his head and smiles amusedly. "She has some logic problems, doesn't she?"

You snort. "Occasionally her plans don't work out so well."

He laughs, and you laugh, and you try to be as quiet as possible.

But it's not quiet enough, apparently, because Quinn storms into the bathroom in a t-shirt and underwear and says, "This is not funny." Her jaw is set and her eyes are cold.

"Whoa, scary Quinn," Kurt says.

"This really isn't funny, guys," she says, and it's much whinier.

You hand the broom to Kurt and you walk over to her. You can't _not _smile, but you do manage to stop laughing. You run your hand through her hair a few times, brush aside her bangs, still it at the now-exposed nape of her neck.

"You are beautiful, sweetheart," you say softly. "And sometimes you do silly things that don't make sense to other people, but that's one of the reasons I really, really love you."

Quinn just stares.

"And you're a brilliant scholar and a published author and very, very smart, even if you have your silly, human moments. And you're just—"

"Lovable and beautiful, yeah yeah," Kurt says, sweeping hair into a dustpan. "Leave the bathroom if you're going to bone."

Quinn quirks a smile, finally, and you kiss her gently. "Yeah?" she asks.

"Yeah," you say.

Later that night, in the middle of the party, you find Quinn, and she's wearing a little black dress and she has a glass of champagne in her hand, her grandmother's string of pears around her neck. She looks like she walked out of the 1960s, and she's stunning, and you put your hand on the small of her back. "Dr. Berry-Fabray," you say into her ear, "your presence is required momentarily in the master suite."

You walk away quickly, and she follows you to the bedroom.

"God," you say, shutting the door and immediately shoving her against it. "You're so fucking sexy."

She lets you kiss her harshly, and she lets you grab her ass, before she groans, "Rachel, we're hosting."

You step back, pout. "You're no fun."

She laughs. "Later, baby. All night, I'll be very fun."

You smile. "It's good to see you less grumpy anyway."

She sweeps a hand through her hair, which is in easy curls right now, and rolls her eyes. But she doesn't stop laughing, and you kiss her sweetly, and you hold hands when you go back out to the party, and when you wake up the next morning you run your fingers along the super fine, baby blonde hairs on the back of her neck while she's still asleep, and you kiss her forehead with easy, calm happiness, because Quinn is always, always unexpectedly full of something young and childlike and so profoundly bright.

…

_4_

Quinn is giving a guest lecture and live reading at Yale after the release of her second book, and you've always liked New Haven, and she promises an easy weekend (and reservations at The Study at Yale, which had won you over far too quickly)—you're six months pregnant, and you already feel like you're about to topple over—and she's in this big fancy lecture hall, and you think she looks perfect there, blonde and stately and wearing thick-rimmed glasses and tailored Chanel slacks and simple Louboutins. You sit a few rows back and for the first forty-five minutes you're entirely captured by her, by her serious, careful words—you know she practices lectures sometimes, because she still doesn't entirely remember words, even though she probably knows more than anyone else you know—and her diction is perfect and intentioned.

She lively, and her poems are profound and beautiful, and, from as much as you understand, the work she's done in theory and performance studies in journals is relatively groundbreaking—you don't _really _know what that even minds, but mainly you gather that a lot of incredibly gifted people think your wife is very, very gifted, too. (You could've told them that when she was fourteen and you had Honors English 9 with her, which always makes you smile.)

And then, just a few minutes from the end, Quinn makes some nerdy pun about everyone being on the same page—literally and figuratively, she says, with an indulgent smile—and most of the audience laughs quietly, and you really don't think it's funny but for some reason you cannot stop laughing. Deep laughter, Quinn's favorite kind of laughter.

Quinn looks over at you, and she scowls for a second and you really, desperately try to stop, and then Quinn just sighs and says, "If you open the front of my book and see my dedication, you'll notice it's to Rachel."

You see people start to smile, and Quinn points to you.

"That's Rachel," she says, "and I think we're both a little tired because we took a train from the city this morning."

Quinn smiles at you sweetly—a relaxed smile, different from her nervous, professional one.

"And," Quinn continues, "I've probably made that really terrible pun in some sort or another in front of Rachel for over fifteen years."

There's gentle laughter, and Quinn beams.

"I have a really nice bit of hope to end this lecture, I guess, though, and I know all of you are immense lit nerds and also very talented lit nerds because we're all at Yale, you know," she says, "but lit nerds can end up with extraordinarily attractive and lovely humans because Rachel, if you don't know, is my wife, and we're expecting a little girl in three months."

There's a lot of clapping, and Quinn nods toward you.

"So just keep making puns and being your smart, open selves, and wonderful, wonderful things are going to happen, promise promise."

You laugh again at Quinn's goofy smile, and at the mixer afterward you stand with her and get to see her and, well, _fans_, and it's lovely because Quinn gets excited about books and theorists and avant grade theatre and film, and she gives history lessons every now and then, and you spend the afternoon just watching her. She sips wine and holds your hand and spins her wedding band around her finger when she gets especially excited, and you get to talk about Broadway every now and then because a few of the people who come up to Quinn are doing drama, and they're very excited to meet both of you.

When you get to your hotel, she's still glowing, and you kiss her fully on the mouth, and she smiles very gently at you, scratches blunt nails along your scalp.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," she says.

"You're not so bad yourself," you say, "and your fans agree."

She rolls her eyes and you laugh, and then you untuck her blouse from her slacks, and you kiss her again.

…

_5_

You get offered a role a few months after Oliver is born to be the voice of a new character in a Disney-Pixar film—a musical—and you very happily accept; you want to go back to work but you're still enjoying your time getting to stay at home with your family, and you don't want to go to LA but you do enjoy film. They're more than happy to work with you in New York, and just make one or two weekend trips to LA, which is fine.

About a year later the film comes out in the winter, and you get to take your entire family to the premiere. Nora is absolutely fabulous and hilarious on the red carpet, all dressed up and happily posing in baby Armani—despite Quinn's protests that it's absurd—and Oliver sleeps through the entire thing, which you are charmed by, as always.

And then there's Quinn, whom you think probably steals everyone's spotlight. She's aging gracefully, the line of her jaw and her cheekbones sharp, although there's laugh lines around her eyes and lips. You always, always think she's beautiful, but tonight she's in a ball gown and you can't help but want to _fuck _her.

You wait, though, and you give Oliver to your nanny before the film starts because he's asleep and you don't want him to disturb the premiere, but you both hold Nora's tiny hands and then find your seats.

You've done a few films before, and you adore them, and you've signed a contract to do a very, very serious musical next year, one that will, you know, probably be nominated for Oscars, which is exciting. But tonight you're so happy to be here with your wife and your children (even if Oliver had fallen asleep), and when your character—a girl with brown hair and green eyes—comes on screen and starts singing, Nora turns frantically to you and then to Quinn and tugs on your hands.

Quinn nods, and she says, "That's Mommy's voice, isn't it?"

Nora nods in excitement, and you find yourself watching Nora and then watching Quinn watch Nora more than actually watching the film.

However, toward the end of the film, Quinn starts to cry. Silently and gently, tears just running easily down her face. Nora doesn't seem to notice in the slightest, she's so enraptured in the film.

You reach across Nora's chair and rub Quinn's shoulder lightly, and her skin erupts in goosebumps and she turns to you.

"Are you okay?" you ask quietly.

She nods and smiles soggily. "This is just one of the most beautiful things I've ever experienced," she whispers.

You get incredibly overwhelmed all of a sudden, and you start laughing and crying at the same time, and Quinn starts laughing too, and you grab her hand tightly behind Nora's hunched back, and you sit with your wife in the middle of an incredibly star-filled theater, listening to your voice on a Disney film.

Stars explode and then lift and reflect against this green ocean on the film, gentle and gold, and your daughter sits between the two of you, oblivious to everything but stories with happy endings and her own shimmering suspension of disbelief.


End file.
